


A Taste Of Home

by LogicGunn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Birthdays, Community: sga_saturday, M/M, SGA Saturday Prompt Challenge, Tablet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25130194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicGunn/pseuds/LogicGunn
Summary: Rodney needs John's help.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 28
Kudos: 70
Collections: SGA Saturday Prompt Challenge





	A Taste Of Home

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little fic for the [SGA Saturday Week #240-243](https://sga-saturday.dreamwidth.org/168010.html) prompt "Tablet".

“I need your help.” 

Normally, when those four words come out of Rodney's mouth they put John on Red Alert, but since Rodney patiently waited until after senior staff to pull him into an alcove and whisper in hushed tones, John can immediately rule out the Wraith, Replicators, Genii and Teyla’s cooking. Instead of panicking, he drops his gaze to Rodney’s crotch and licks his lips. 

“With what?” he asks in a low voice. 

“Oh, for god’s sake, Colonel,” hisses Rodney. “Get your libido in check, this is serious! I need to get a hold of a kilo of sugar ASAP.” 

That's a new one. “Sugar?” 

“Yes. Sugar. Granulated or superfine, absolutely not powdered. Golden preferably, but I’ll accept white on account of the short notice.” 

“What exactly do you need sugar for?” 

“A project.” 

This sets off alarm bells. “Are you making smoke bombs?” 

“No!” 

“So go ask the mess sergeant.” 

“I did,” pouts Rodney. “She said no.” 

“Well, there’s your answer then.” 

John pulls out of the alcove, but Rodney grabs his arm and yanks him back in. “John. I really, really need that sugar.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s...a thing. For Carson.” 

“Mmmhmm. You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to pull rank with the woman in charge of feeding the expedition.” 

Sergeant Harriet Campbell is a formidable woman, all auburn hair and steely eyes. John can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen her crack a smile. He’s not crossing her for a bag of sugar, not on his life. 

Rodney waves a hand around and sighs. “It’s his birthday tomorrow, and he’s acting all...mopey. The last time I saw him like this was during our first year here, remember that week he was all sad sighs and puppy dog eyes? It was the first time in his life he wasn’t going to get a package from his mother on his birthday.” 

“Oh.” 

“And seeing as though he died last year and she doesn’t have the clearance to know that he was cloned, I doubt he’s going to get a package this year.” 

“And the sugar...” 

“I want to make him some tablet. I already have the butter and the milk, Teyla put me in contact with some cow-ish breeders on...I can’t remember, some planet she does business with. They wear the funny little hats.” 

“The Djilions?” asks John. He remembers the little hats. Pointed caps dripping with tiny little gold disks. 

“Yeah, them,” huffs Rodney impatiently. “They gave me an entire urn of condensed milk and a slab of butter in exchange for a batch of home-made udder balm.” 

John peers at Rodney’s hands for tell-tale chafing. “Please tell me you didn’t have help apply the balm...” 

“Ha! No. Though I'm reliably informed that healthy udders means happy cows, and happy cows means better milk.” 

“So you have everything you need except sugar.” 

“And an hour in the kitchen.” 

John shakes his head. “You’d better clean up after yourself, or we’ll both regret this.” 

Rodney crosses his heart. “Beaver’s honour.” 

“I think you’re mixing things up there, buddy.” 

“So you’ll do it?” 

“Sure,” John sighs. “I’ll talk to Sergeant Campbell.” 

*** 

“So you see, Sergeant, I’d consider it a personal favour if you would allow Doctor McKay the use of your stove, and, say, a kilo of sugar?” 

Sergeant Campbell squints at him over her shoulder from the sink next to the serving station that John knows better than to walk behind. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just rinses the soap off her hands and shakes the water off. John waits her out, knowing that any kind of nervous chatter will put him down in her estimations and might cause her to refuse his request. She runs a tight ship and she doesn’t suffer fools. 

“Aye, alright then,” she says, finally, reaching for a hand towel. “As long as he doesnae expect me to clean up after him.” 

“He’ll be as good as gold. You’ll barely know he was there.” 

Campbell throws the towel into a laundry basket. “He can use the kitchen after 2300. I’ll leave out the sugar and a pan.” 

“Thanks Sergeant.” 

“I expect you to supervise, sir.” 

Of course she does. “No problem, Sergeant.” John flashes his friendliest smile, but Campbell’s mouth doesn’t so much as twitch as she turns back to her dumplings. 

*** 

2315 hours has Rodney (apron tied and chef’s cap in situ) melting a big slab of butter in a pan and John weighing out the sugar on a set of old-fashioned, spring loaded weighing scales. Campbell likes things a certain way, and everything in her kitchen is metric, not imperial. John’s so far out of his depth but Rodney’s stirring the pan happily, making little humming noises as he moves the butter with his three-foot long wooden spoon. 

“I hope Carson appreciates this,” mutters John as he brushes spilled sugar from the counter into his hand for the fifth time. 

“He will,” says Rodney, reaching for the bowl of weighed sugar. He pours it in slowly as he stirs until it’s all mixed in then adds a cupful of the milk. The mixture smells sickly sweet, and John can’t fathom this turning into something Carson would actually enjoy eating. 

“What now?” asks John. 

“Now, we stir it for eight minutes on high, then add the rest of the milk and let it simmer for fifteen minutes on low.” 

“That’s a lot of stirring.” 

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re here too.” 

“This is not how I like to spend my evenings.” 

Rodney turns from the giant pan and smirks, the chef’s cap having slipped down one side so that it sit’s jauntily over one eyebrow. “I know exactly how you like to spend your evenings.” 

John ducks his head at Rodney’s intense gaze. “I suppose you do.” 

“But this is a taste of home for Carson, and I just...I really want him to know he’s not second best.” Rodney reaches up and pushes the cap back into place. “Just because he’s a clone doesn’t mean he’s not the real Carson Beckett, and I know I always make fun of him but he misses his mother something awful. It’s pitiful to see. This might cheer him up.” 

John crosses his arms and leans his hip against the industrial steel counter. “You know he’s going to cry, right?” he says. 

“But they’ll be good tears, not bad ones.” 

All tears are bad tears in John’s book but he doesn’t say anything to Rodney, the man who takes pride in making other men cry over an erroneous factorial. If Carson gets emotional they can always palm him off to Keller or Biro. 

They trade off with the wooden spoon when Rodney starts lagging, and John finds that he enjoys the rhythmic stirring of the viscous mixture, watching it bubble and change from a milky yellow to a murky brown. As everything starts to caramelise, the scent starts change and John lifts the spoon out to get a taste. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” screeches Rodney. “Give me that spoon!” 

John hands it over, shell-shocked. “I only wanted a taste.” 

“It’s boiled sugar, you moron. It’s over a hundred degrees! Celsius, not your wishy-washy Fahrenheit. It’ll burn your tongue right off.” 

That’s something John probably knew once upon a time. “Right.” 

“Oh, don’t pout. I was only saving you from third degree burns to your mouth. I like your mouth. It’s my favourite part of you.” 

“Really? What about my-” 

“Yes yes, I like other parts of you too. More stirring, less flirting please.” 

John rolls his eyes and turns back to the hot sugar mix which is starting to froth. 

“Should it be bubbling like that?” 

“It is? That means it’s time to lower the heat. Here.” Rodney adjusts the flame and pours in the rest of the milk, instructing John to mix until it it’s all one shade of light brown. When he’s satisfied with it he grabs the wooden spoon out of John’s hand and balances it on top of the pan. 

“Don’t we need to keep stirring?” asks John, eyeing the slow bubbles rising to the surface and popping in a flurry of fudgy sweetness. 

“On and off,” says Rodney. He crowds John against the counter and grabs hold of his t-shirt. “I can think of something to pass the time...” he says coyly. 

“I’m not doing it in the mess,” says John, though he’s not entirely sure he’s all that convincing when he’s got his hands on Rodney’s ass and pulling him in closer. “Anyone could walk in.” 

“That’s kind of the point,” says Rodney as he moves in for the kill. 

“Later,” hisses John, kissing Rodney on the mouth once then pushing him away with his arms. 

Rodney huffs a little but goes back to the pan and stirs a handful of times, and it’s a good thing because Sergeant Campbell chooses that moment to walk in to the kitchen. 

“Sergeant,” says John amiably, and Rodney turns his head so fast he might get whiplash. 

“Sir,” says Campbell, with a raised eyebrow that tells John she’s on to them. “I came to see how you were both getting on.” 

“It’s almost finished,” says Rodney, stirring slowly. “It’s on the final simmer.” 

“Mind if I take a keek?” asks Campbell. 

Rodney passes her the wooden spoon and she pokes at the mixture, raising a spoonful and watching it drip back into the pan. She grabs a plate from under the counter, dribbling a few lines onto the cold surface to cool as she inspects Rodney and John’s mess. 

“Uh, we were going to clean up, just as soon as it’s finished,” says John, but Campbell gives him a look and he amends that statement. “I mean, we’re going to clean it up right now, while we wait.” 

Rodney nods enthusiastically, wide-eyed and earnest, and grabs a dishcloth. He soaks it and wrings it out, then starts furiously rubbing at the scattered sugar on the counter top under Campbell’s watchful gaze, leaving John to collect the dishes and run a sink full of hot water. As he washes up, Rodney goes over all the counters a couple of times, leaning over John once or twice to dip the cloth into the sink when it starts to go dry. Campbell stirs the pan slowly, then beckons them over. 

“You’ll be wanting a wee taste,” she says, and rolls up the warm lines of tablet, handing one to either of them and popping one in her own mouth. Rodney and John follow suit, and John is surprised by how nice it is. Sweet and caramelly, with a soft but gritty texture and an exceptionally creamy taste. 

“I haven’t had tablet in years,” says Rodney. 

“Well, it’ll be a lot better when it’s set, but this is no’ bad,” says Campbell, the corners of her mouth curving into something resembling a smile. 

Rodney flushes furiously under Campbell’s scrutiny and John smiles, both of them recognising the genuine praise behind the understated words. Campbell gives the pan one last stir then hands the spoon back to Rodney. 

“It’s ready,” she says as she heads out of the kitchen. “I expect that pan to be spotless for the morning!” she calls back as she palms open the door. 

“Yes, ma’am,” says Rodney to her retreating back, only relaxing when she’s closed the door. “Oh my god,” he says. “She’s the scariest person on the base.” 

“She’s the most important person on the base,” replies John, and Rodney hums his agreement. It’s one hell of a skill to be able to take alien foodstuffs and make meals out of it. Her mashed-root-vegetables are the ultimate comfort food, and her exotic-fruit jellies literally melt in the mouth. There are a lot of things that people complain about to Major Lorne (John’s long had to accept that he’s officially ‘the man’ and therefore unapproachable when it comes to the minutiae of the base), but the food isn’t one of them. 

Rodney lifts the pan and John scrapes out the hot tablet mix into a shallow tray. They wash up together and put everything back where they found it for fear of Cambell’s wrath should she come in in the morning and find fault with something. By the time the kitchen is tidy, the tablet has started to set and Rodney scores a grid into it for ease of breaking in the morning. John grabs a Ziploc bag and they carry the tray to Rodney’s room and let it cool down in front of an open window. Rodney decides to finish what he started earlier and after one blow job (“Jesus-Fuck...Rodney!”) and one hand job (“Oh God...John...”) they curl up on Rodney’s bed together, sharing body heat under the covers in a room that’s cooled by a brisk, ocean breeze. 

In the morning, John wakes up to an offkey rendition of Smells Like Teen Spirit floating out of the bathroom, complete with improvised guitar riffs and shampoo-bottle drumming. He smiles into the blankets then gets up to join Rodney in the shower, eliciting a genuine squeal of surprise when he walks in and starts singing the chorus alongside him. Twenty minutes of soap suds, toothbrushing and sock-finding later and they’re heading out to the infirmary, bag of tablet in hand and a spring in their step. 

They find Carson, not in the infirmary, but in the mess hall, drinking a quarter of a gallon of coffee to fortify himself for the second half of a 28 hour shift. He waves at them when he sees them, and Rodney makes a detour to get their own coffee before they sit down on either side of Carson, mugs in hand. 

“Here,” says Rodney, and he hands over the Ziploc bag. Carson peers at it with red-rimmed eyes for a moment before taking it and opening it up. He pulls out a large piece of tablet and bites off a corner. His face lights up in delight when the taste cuts through the nightshift fog and he realises what he’s eating. 

“What? How? Where did you get tablet from?” he asks, dumbfounded. 

“I made it,” says Rodney. “Uh...we made it,” he amends when John elbows him in the side. 

“You made tablet? For me?” 

“Yeah, you dummy, we did. Happy Birthday!” 

“Birth- it’s my birthday?” asks Carson, wide eyed, peering around the mess. 

“You forgot your own birthday?” asks Rodney. 

“What day is it? No, never mind. I get confused trying to convert Earth dates to Atlantis ones. I thought it was next week. Or maybe last week. Not today at any rate.” 

“Well, it is, so, you know, many happy returns and all that.” 

“I can’t believe you made me tablet. It tastes just like my mum’s-” Carson bursts into tears in the middle of the mess, blubbering like only an emotional, sleep-deprived medical worker can, bag of tablet hanging from his clenched hands. 

John looks at Rodney over the top of Carson’s bent head, who rolls his eyes and radios Doctor Biro to come rescue her chief medical officer. Carson starts to wail while shoving little bits of tablet in his mouth and regaling them with little facts about his mother. 

“My mum’s petunias won best in show three years running.” *sniff* “She lost out to Moira bloody McDonald’s pansies in ‘97.” *sniff* “She wasnae so keen after that. Oh mum!” 

Over Rodney’s shoulder John spots Sergeant Campbell standing in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand on the frame and the other hiding a grin. She winks at him then turns and heads behind the serving station to plate someone’s breakfast as Biro and Marie come rushing into the mess. They flank Carson and help him stand up while he blows his nose into a tissue he dug out of his pocket. He clings to the bag of tablet as the two women guide him away, turning back briefly to thank John and Rodney before allowing them to take him out of the mess and into a transporter. Hopefully they’re relieving him of duty for the day and not taking him back to the infirmary; the man needs a stiff drink and a few hours sleep. 

“Well,” says Rodney. 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you think he liked it?” 

“Of course he did.” 

“Only I wasn’t expecting quite so many tears as that.” 

John, who was totally expecting that many tears, nods sagely. “But like you said, they were happy tears.” 

Rodney stands abruptly. “Right. Time for your birthday present.” 

“Uh...my-” 

“You thought I wouldn’t remember, didn’t you?” 

John wants to say no, but with all the fanfare of Carson’s tablet, he assumed that Rodney forgot all about it. He stands and follows Rodney out of the mess. “Maybe?” 

Rodney leads him into a transporter and taps the living section on the map. “After last year I put an entry in my calendar to remind me.” 

“So what’s my present? Did you wrap it up?” 

“Actually, I’ll be the one doing the unwrapping.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a different ending half done but then I discovered the PaulMcG shares a birthday with JFLan, and so... :)


End file.
